Small Spaces
by midwestern-duchess
Summary: "Do you think it's possible that some people are born to give more love than they will ever get back in return?" -Tyler Knott Gregson (They gravitate towards each other—two beings capable of incredible compassion—like their souls are old friends.)


It starts with a bullet in her back.

Literally.

It's her first field mission and she honestly doubts if she's even cleared to be out here, but she's here nonetheless. The only person she _knows_ is the Commander—Gabriel Reyes. A standoffish, distant man who can read the minute shifts in an enemy's stance as well as she can decipher the irregular murmur of someone's heartbeat.

He'd been the one to recruit her, and the fact that he'd gone to the lengths he had to seek out a healer of her caliber tells her more about the way he cares for his team than he ever will himself.

Everyone else is a mystery. She's read the roster and ran scans on the strike team, which—while making her very familiar with everyone's blood type and medical allergies—gives her little to go on as far as who they are as _people_. And more importantly, as her future patients.

In short, Mercy feels ridiculously out of place in the middle of the firefight, providing support for honest strangers—but she's worked with less and is much more preoccupied with the man standing on an adjacent rooftop, sniper rifle glinting in the noonday sun.

She's been eyeing the sniper carefully as she maneuvers around the battlefield. The Egyptian marksman, Ana, had begun some sort of duel with the other gunman, but the Commander had called her back to help tighten up a chokepoint, which left the Talon sharpshooter unchecked.

Mercy knows he sees her—she's wearing a pair of glowing angel wings for Christ's sake—but her Caduceus Blaster doesn't grant her the distance she needs to get a shot off—and that assumes her aim is true, which it very rarely is. She's no stranger to combat, but she's not exactly a frontline soldier.

Overwatch did not—as the Commander loves to remind her—pick her for her sharpshooting abilities.

So she's well and truly ignored. He gives her his back as he peers down his scope, and she simply watches the sniper watch her teammates, eyes narrowed as she creeps along, one gloved hand skating against the buildings at her back, the other holding her sidearm in a white-knuckle grip, her staff a heavy weight across her shoulders.

She wants to do something—she can't believe she's the only one seeing this—but her involvement in this battle had been such a last-minute decision, she hadn't been outfitted with a comms unit.

Mercy is debating between turning back and finding someone more adept at dealing with the situation and just hauling off and going toe-to-toe to him herself when she watches the gunman lift his weapon, peering down the scope.

Alarmed, she hastens to follow the line of his sight and sees he has a soldier in his crosshairs.

She doesn't know his name (she really needs to look at that roster again) but she's seen him before. Tall, fair-haired, strong jaw. Usually arguing with the Commander, but in a way that smacks more of respect and camaraderie than of defiance. She remembers his vitals more than his face, but all that matters is he's in danger and it seems she's the only one around to do anything about it.

Her eyes flash around her surroundings as her brain tumbles over itself it her haste to come up with a strategy of some sort when she sees the Talon sniper take a deep breath—some part of her remembers Ana explaining it's a way to ensure a steady hand—and she stops thinking altogether as she forces herself forward, gunning her wings into action and using them to propel herself towards the soldier.

The Talon operative pulls the trigger just as the man turns, confused at the noise her sudden approach makes, but it's too late and she's already lowering her shoulder plowing into him because she doesn't have to be a weapons expert to know about trajectory and angles and _if this man gets hit in the base of his spine she'll never forgive herself._

She twists as she dives, baring her side to the sniper as opposed to her back. The movement is an afterthought. Her own protection is always an afterthought.

The bullet is slowed by the armor of her suit, but a bullet is a bullet, and she's got one nestled nicely in her side as it eats through the fabric of her undershirt and burrows painfully into her skin.

 _Liebe Güte._ The Commander is going to kill her.

She expects a hard, graceless landing on the sunbaked concrete street, and is reasonably surprised when warm arms suddenly curl around her shoulders, pulling her roughly out of the line of fire. The movement jostles her wound, and she sucks in a sharp gasp, and hears a low apology in turn.

"Tracer!" the name is a bark of authority and comes from the soldier holding her.

A heartbeat and a flash of blue and she's there—cocksure grin and windswept hair.

"I got 'im!" she hears the young woman's cheery reply, and her pistols crack twice.

"Mercy." A voice at her ear. Low and steady and strong. She hears a dull thump and realizes Tracer must have taken care of the Talon agent. "Mercy, can you hear me?"

"'M fine," she grits back, eyes wrenched shut as she holds both her hands tightly over the wound, blood soaking her fingers. "My staff…"

"Tracer, cover us." His voice is low and commanding and Mercy feels herself being lifted onto her feet, but notices hazily he's bearing more than half her weight as he slips an arm around her waist and pulls the other across his broad shoulders.

"You got it, chief!" Mercy cracks an eye open to see the young woman deftly reload before glancing over her shoulder. She blows an errant brown lock out of her eye before offering the doctor a jaunty smile. "Don't worry, love. We'll take it from 'ere!"

"But wait…" Mercy's protective instincts are howling in protest at leaving someone unattended in the middle of a firefight but in a blip, Tracer's gone. And it's not like she could break the iron-clad hold the soldier's got on her waist anyway.

She loses time, which irritates her more than she can put into words, and when she finally comes around again she sees they've been joined by a very unhappy Commander Reyes.

"Commander," she dips her head respectfully, willing her words to not slur.

He meets her gaze with an unimpressed stare.

"You're benched, Doc," he tells her gruffly. "Indefinitely."

She rolls her eyes—leave their best healer on the sidelines? She'd like to see him try—and feels a warm hand on her shoulder.

"I'll watch her, Gabe," the solider says.

Her usual indignation swirls up at the remark—oh he'll _watch_ her, will he?—but she finds herself oddly soothed by his low and steady voice. The voice of an anchor—a rock.

She settles back against him, the fight trickling out of her as the pain returns—hazy and unfocused.

"I will do better next time, Commander," she mumbles, eyes falling shut.

Reyes retorts in his voice of struck steel, but all Angela can hear is the soldier, his voice low in her ear.

"You did perfectly fine, Doctor. We're incredibly lucky to have you."

-0-

Angela intends to find out everything she can about the solider.

Her workload, however, has other ideas.

She strides through their base, arms full of documents and papers and folders and medical charts and waivers and releases

She knows this is the Commader's grand scheme—to keep her so busy she misses the battles—and the only thing keeping her from beating down Reyes' door and demanding he tell her just _who_ he thinks he's dealing with is Ana Amari, who assures the younger woman with a secretive smile that when she's needed on the battlefield, Ana will be sure she gets there.

Slightly mollified, Angela decides to carry out her sentence with strength and dignity and _oh_ the Commander had better hope he makes this up to her before it comes time for her to review his medical clearance.

"Excuse me, Doctor?"

Angela starts with surprise, nearly dropping all her papers as she spins around to find herself face-to-face with the soldier himself.

"Oh!" Angela blinks with surprise. "Um, John, was it?"

The man gives her a small smile, amusement dancing low in his eyes. "Jack, if you don't mind," he offers, extending a hand. She carefully juggles the documents and papers to her other arm to give him a sturdy shake.

"Naturally," she replies with a gracious nod. A pause. They're still holding hands. "Did you need something?"

"I actually had a question, if you have a moment," he drops her hand to reach for a handful of her folders to help free up her arms.

Angela thinks of the enormous pile of documents and medical releases piled high on her desk, all that require her attention. She smiles back.

Reyes doesn't _really_ need them all done by today.

"Certainly. Follow me, if you please."

He obliges, and the only sound is her heels clicking against the floor as they make their way through the corridor.

"How's your side?" he asks, once the silence has grown noticeable.

Angela's hand would have ghosted to the injury if she could spare the hands.

"Healing," she answers with a small shrug. Always dismissive and short-spoken when discussing her own wounds. Such is her character.

He allows this with a nod, and stretches out a hand to open the door to the infirmary for her, ushering her in.

She smiles her thanks and steps inside, casting an annoyed glance at the documents that already crowd her desk as she deposits the latest load, picking up a handful to work through as she turns back to face John. Jack. Whatever. She never did care much for nicknames.

"What can I do for you?" she asks, skimming the top document before giving it a quick sign. She's already looked him over during their walk, and he'd displayed no irregularities. She's curious what he wants from her.

"Are you familiar with the program I came from?" he begins. She blinks, looking up. No preamble?

She gazes back at him flatly, and he elaborates. "It was quite common in the States, they chose a handful of—"

"The soldier enhancement program," Angela supplies, her tone darkening slightly.

Jack catches the slight shift. "I take it you're not a fan?" he asks, lifting a brow.

Angela signs the next page with a flourish, eyes narrowing. "I have little love in my heart for the use of medical technology in anything other than healing the sick and injured." Her tone is cold. "But we can agree to disagree. I have made peace with it."

She sees him rock back on his heels out of the corner of her eye, and is dully amused at the action. What a strange, awkward, kindhearted man, she muses.

"I mean…" he shifts his weight. "I always looked at it in the context of how many people would have died if not for the protection of the soldiers that came from the program," he offers quietly.

Angela freezes, hands hanging suspended over medical charts.

"That is…" she trails off, feeling an odd sensation low in her gut. "That is a fair point, actually."

He chucks lowly behind her, and she looks up to see him fixing her with a look of gentle amusement.

"You sound surprised," he tells her.

Her eyes narrow, if only just. "I'm not used to having my philosophies challenged. Especially by soldiers."

A winning smile. He's good at those, she notes.

"Well, I was just wondering—well, I was looking for your opinion, rather, as a professional—since they altered a lot of my— _our_ —genetic makeup and…"

He trails off. She cocks an eyebrow.

"And?" she prompts gently.

He gestures somewhat pointlessly with his hands. "I just, I mean, there's talk—there's always talk, of course—but some people say that, well, they say—" he breaks off again.

Her expression softens. She lowers her papers.

"It's all you, John."

He looks up in surprise, and she offers a kind smile.

"I know what you are asking. I have had it asked of me time and time again by men and women like you." She sighs, holding the papers to her chest.

"Medicine in incredible. It can do so many things. At times, it's even capable of miraculous feats. When in the right hands, there is little it cannot do." She looks around the infirmary before glancing back to him.

Jack nods uncertainly.

"But medicine cannot recreate courage, or kindness, or empathy. I cannot cook bravery up in some lab, John. I cannot brew compassion." She shrugs, giving a breathless little laugh. "If I could, I would have long ago."

He swallows somewhat roughly, looking unsure of what to say. Angela just keeps her smile.

"Whatever valor you display on the battlefield is your own, John. You are a good man, and no doctor can take that from you."

She offers him a small smile before turning back to her documents.

He utters a quiet _thank you_ that burns with sincerity.

"You're welcome," she murmurs back.

-0-

Angela has a small problem with soldiers.

Which is a statement so backwards it almost pains her, because she's been around soldiers her whole life—even before she was practically considered one—so this little aversion is absolutely something she should have gotten over long ago.

But soldiers are more often than not somewhat difficult patients with dark pasts, and it takes either an act of god or jaws of life to get them to talk to her.

She knows people don't like to talk about what has come to past—she is no exception. But if she is to be responsible for this team, she needs all the help she can get.

So she squares her shoulders, lifts her chin, and opens the door to the office she knows Jack favors.

He glances up when she pushes the door open— _she should have knocked why the hell didn't she knock any normal person would have knocked_ —and smiles.

"Evening, Doctor," he greets her, lifting an eyebrow. "Something you needed?"

Angela holds the folder closer to her chest, assessing him carefully, hesitancy hanging over her every move as she eases into the room.

"I, well…" she swallows. Jack's eyebrow slants down in confusion as he watches the usually very eloquent and graceful doctor fumble for words. "I was doing a routine checkup of the strike team roster."

Jack nods slowly. "And?"

"I cam across some…irregularities," she hedges. She shifts her weight nervously. John is a good man—a great man. But pride is a disease she has no remedy for.

Jack turns away from the table strewn with maps and papers to look her full in the face, head titled as he regards her with confusion and concern.

"Dr. Ziegler, if something's wrong, you don't need permission to—"

"Were you tortured?"

The words are out of her mouth before she can think to stop herself—wild and loud and inelegant. Jack stares at her.

"I just—if something did happen, I need to know," she blurts out. Jack watches as two sides of the woman seem to battle for dominance—the respectfully supportive Angela, and the fiercely protective Mercy. She gestures pointlessly with one hand, the other still clutching the documents to her chest. "It is only for your own sake, John. Please."

Silence reigns as they simply stare at each other. Slowly, Jack crosses his arms, assessing her carefully.

"What exactly did you see on my files that brought this up?" he asks, and she's relieved that his tone isn't guarded, but rather curious.

"You were injured last week—fairly severely," she explains, pulling out the folder and flipping it open. "I did a more thorough inspection that strictly necessary just to be sure there were no irregularities."

"And I take it you found some?"

She nods, fiddling nervously with the file. "You have extensive muscle damage to your shoulders. As if you had to preform the same task over and over. I'm familiar with many kinds of torture, and it isn't that far off from some things I've seen. I'd dismiss it as just wear and tear, but I've studied every tissue, bone, and blood vessel of soldiers for years and I've never—"

"Angela." It's the first time he's called her by her proper name, and startles her into silence. "It happened before I was inducted into the program."

She stares at him, wordless.

"I grew up on a farm," he explains softly. "My parents were older anyway, and they'd been doing manual labor their whole lives. I ended up with a pretty full schedule."

A farm.

"I overworked myself constantly," he laughs—awkward and forced. "I guess my x-rays would look pretty ugly, especially with all the enhancements from the program."

 _A farm._

"I, uh, couldn't tell you exactly _which_ job did all that damage. I kind of did everything."

Angela just nods. A farm. She's never been more _mortified—_

"Right," she says stiffly, snapping the folder shut. "Wonderful. Splendid. I, personally, am going to try and forget this ever happened, and would very much appreciate it if—"

 _"_ _Angela."_

She starts slightly as Jack rises from his chair, dully remembering he has a considerable height advantage over her.

"You asked, and that's what matters," he tells her. "Really. Most people wouldn't ask."

Angela just shrugs. "It is my job."

"It's not," Jack contradicts, and she looks up in surprise to see him meeting her gaze firmly.

"You go beyond your job, Doctor. You do more—you care more—than anyone else I've ever met. I am honored to have you on my team."

Angela swallows. She doesn't get compliments like that every day.

"Could you…" she trails off, shifting her weight. "Could you tell me some stories? About your…farm life?"

He blinks in surprise for a moment before breaking into a grin.

"I'd love to," he says, gesturing to a seat. "I always like to tell people the one where I almost got my arm caught in a combine."

Angela takes the seat slowly, frowning in concern. "Wait, you _what?"_

-0-

They all stare up at it, wordless.

"It's…lovely," Angela manages, because no one is saying anything and something absolutely needs to be said.

McCree chokes on his laughter. Angela throws an elbow.

"It's ugly as sin," Ana remarks, studying the statue with a lightly amused pull to her lips.

"It's _lovely,"_ Angela says again, shooting the sharpshooter a sharp look.

Ana just laughs quietly and turns to pace away as Lena bounces over. "Hey, I heard they unveiled the—" she breaks off, eyes going wide behind her goggles. "Oh, my dear lord."

Jack blows out a breath, eyes fixed at the base of the statue. McCree chokes again.

"Wow," the ex-pilot remarks, hands on her hips as she tilts her head back to get a good look at the statue. "That's, uh. That's somethin', chief."

"It's a nightmare to look at." Ana's voice drifts over even as she strolls away. Angela whips her head around to scowl, but McCree finally lets loose a loud howl of laughter, grabbing Jack's shoulder to steady himself as he doubles over, tearing up at his own amusement.

"It's not… _horrible,"_ Lena hedges, rocking back on her heels, chewing on her lower lip. "It's jus' a lot… _golder_ than I thought it would be."

Jack sighs again. McCree slaps his leg, shoulders still shaking with laughter.

Angela shoots a sympathetic look at the soldier. "I'm sure I could get Reinhardt to destroy it if you wanted," she murmurs to him. "Really. He owes me a favor anyway."

"It's just awkward 'cos it's only you," Lena mutters, still studying the statue with a slightly cocked head. "Maybe if they put, like, Torbjörn up there or something…" she trails off. McCree's laughter continues.

Jack finally looks up to fix the doctor with a look half-amused, half-resigned.

"I have a funny feeling they'd notice something like that," he tells her. "And since when do you collect on debts?"

She rolls her eyes, smiling softly at his words. He smiles back.

The moment is broken by McCree, who resurfaces, still sucking in deep breaths, face red from the force of his laughter.

"They outta slap Reyes up there," he chuckles.

Jack and Angela treat him to dark looks of disapproval. Lena taps her chin, pondering it.

"There's really not enough room, is there?" she points out.

A grin splits McCree's lips, as the gunslinger ignores the warning glances of his other teammates. "Nah, nah, they do it like the ole heroine, damsel-in-distress poses, y'know? On the floor, cluthin' Jack's leg."

He drops to one knee to demonstrate, wrapping his arms around Jack's leg and hugging his face to the other man's calf.

Tracer breaks out into laughter, while Angela just gives a weary sigh.

"Jesse, please, we're in public."

 _"_ _Save me, General Morrison!"_ a hoarse, girlish falsetto that draws a wince from Angela and even louder laughter from Lena.

"McCree, get up." Jack's voice is gruff but with the gunslinger below him and the statute before him he's quickly running out of places to stare disinterestedly at.

The ex-Deadlock Gang member just chuckles to himself, drawing himself back to full height to tip his hat to the solider.

"No manners, Morrison. Your mama would be ashamed," he chides with a grin.

Angela arches an eyebrow. "And I'm sure your mother would be delighted to know her son is a criminal," she deadpans.

McCree points a finger. _"Reformin'_ criminal," he corrects. "Don't go stampin' out my dignity, Doc. I ain't got much to spare."

"McCree, get your finger out of her face."

The group turns to see Reyes approaching, frowning at the gunslinger who obediently drops his hand as Lena snickers.

"You should have seen 'im earlier, chief," she remarks with a broad grin. "He was—"

"Doing absolutely nothing to possibly stain Overwatch's integrity and image," Angela interrupts her. "We were all just admiring the statue."

McCree scoffs. "Yeah. _Admirin'."_

He turns to leave, Lena darting to his side and whispering some joke that has the outlaw laughing loudly as the two make their way back to the hall.

Reyes takes a steps forward, standing between Jack and Angela as he finally takes a long look.

"Well," he remarks. "Not personally what I would use the space for, but nobody asked me."

"They didn't ask me either," Jack mutters. He glances sideways at the Commander. "Gabe, I never would have—"

He holds up a dark hand. "Relax, Jack. Doesn't hurt my feelings, just my eyes."

Jack barks a laugh, and Angela smiles kindly.

"You're a good man, John," Angela tells him softly. "Truly."

He glances her out of the corner of his eye, smirking. "You keep telling me that," he says. "Isn't there some statistic about lying and repetition?"

She rolls her eyes and he just chuckles before lifting a hand in farewell.

"See you guys back at the hall?" he asks.

"'Course," Reyes replies. "Someone's gotta boo your speech, statue boy."

Angela nudges him sharply and he just snorts in amusement to himself. Alone with each other, the pair stare up at the gleaming, golden statue.

"You know what's gonna be funny?" Reyes remarks after a moment. "When Jack's old and gray, and there's still this huge fuckin' gold statue of him."

Angela laughs quietly. "We will have to plan annual trips," she says, playing along. "Embarrass him completely."

Reyes snorts, humor tugging at his lips. He then cuts a glance at her.

"Everything okay?" he asks lowly.

She nods, tucking hair behind her ear. "The strike team is healthy, there are no battles in the near future, and my infirmary is empty," she lists off. "I have no complaints."

Reyes just snorts quietly to himself, crossing his arms as they stand at the foot of the stature together.

"Wanna know what I think?"

"I have a feeling you are going to tell me anyway."

He shoots her a sideways smirk, and she smiles back.

"I think it outta be you up there," he says, jerking his chin to the statue.

Her eyes widen and heat floods her face at the prospect. "What? _No!_ Gabriel, that would be—"

He just laughs under his breath as he turns to leave, Angela striding after him, angrily protesting.

-0-

The woman is radiant in a scorching red sundress, and Jack hasn't taken his eyes off her.

Angela smiles softly to herself as they move about the market, a basket in the crook of her arm and a straw hat fixed atop her head. Overwatch has given her many unique opportunities, and the chance to travel the world is far from the least attractive one.

So she and Jack elect to take a day and browse the bright, loud, cheerful markets of Salvador.

Well, more specifically— _she'd_ wanted to look at the markets, and Jack had badgered her about potential Talon spies until she had just held out her hand and told him to come along.

Angela eyes her companion quietly, smirk still tugging at her lips as Jack continues to steal less-than-subtle glances at a local woman chatting animatedly with an elderly man a few feet away. Her long dark hair gleams like black silk, and Angela watches as she lifts a hand to her mouth in an attempt to smother her laughter.

"She's quite pretty," Angela remarks, watching him out of the corner of her eye as she pauses to inspect a barrel of apples. She arches an eyebrow when Jack snaps his gaze back to her, eyes wide and alarmed.

"Who?" he asks, Adam's apple bobbing.

She treats him to a look of dubious amusement. "Just go say something, John, honestly."

He sticks his hands in the pockets of a battered letterman-style jacket that Reyes had bought him one year as a joke that she suspects might have gone over his head.

"Don't speak the language," is his excuse, and it earns a scoff from Angela.

"You underestimate the power of body language," she chides him lightly, smiling slyly over her shoulder.

His gaze turns sharp. "My body has _nothing_ to say to her, thank you."

Angela just laughs to herself—where did Overwatch find this man, honestly—and she steps lightly across the street to reach the other woman's side, Jack hot on her heels.

"Ange—"

 _"_ _Perdoe-me,"_ she begins, deftly cutting off the soldier to claim the woman's attention. She looks up in surprise, tucking hair behind her ear with dark fingers. She offers a hesitant smile that Angela whole-heartedly returns.

 _"_ _Eu só tinha que dizer o quão bonita você olha, querida,"_ she says, and her accent may not be perfect, but the woman's eyes light up with delight all the same. She murmurs a bashful thanks, and Angela notices her eyes dart to Jack's, who offers a stiff wave, face quickly turning as red as the woman's dress.

Angela just wiggles her fingers in a friendly farewell as she turns to peruse more of the market, Jack following at her side.

"Was that necessary?" he growls.

She laughs. _"Claro,"_ she replies, grinning widely up at him.

He looks down at her then, suddenly serious.

"How do you do that?" he asks.

She frowns at the amazement in his voice. "Do what? Compliment people?"

"Learn all those languages." He gently takes hold of her elbow to guide her around a group of noisy teenagers who come past. A few recognize the two heroes, and whisper excitedly to their friends.

Angela just laughs. "It is part of my job, John. How do you know every little detail about every weapon you come across?" A particularly strong gust of wind threatens to carry her hat off, and she hastens to grab hold of it. "We learn. We grow. We do our duty. I cannot afford to be hindered by language barriers, you cannot afford to be held up by the mechanics of a gun." She offers him a small smile and a shrug. "That is all."

"Yeah but," he sighs. "I know _some_ languages, but you just know _everything—"_

"I do _not_ know everything," she corrects him immediately. "And my first language was not English, which gives me an advantage."

He frowns at her words. "How is that an advantage?"

"Because English beats up other languages in dark alleys, then rifles through their pockets for loose grammar and spare vocabulary," she remarks with an incredibly straight face. Jack just laughs.

"In Arabic, the gender is in the verb," she explains as they walk. Some part of her whispers how undeniably _together_ they look in this moment, but she forces those thoughts down. "Russian is really just pronounced as its spelled, but spelling words in Russian is not the easiest thing in the world. Spanish and Italian are both fairly kind to beginners and _usually_ follow logical patterns. Japanese has three alphabets so best of luck to you there."

Jack just laughs to himself, shaking his head. He opens his mouth to reply, but the cry of a child rings out in the crowded market, and his eyes snap to find the source.

The two Overwatch agents descend upon the scene with concern, finding a group of children standing around a sobbing boy.

"What's going on?" Jack demands in a voice than commands respect. The kids look up, startled.

 _"_ _Por favor, qual é o problema?"_ Angela asks gently, looking directly at a boy with kind brown eyes.

"He doesn't know where his parents are," the boy's English is shaky, but there. He gestures hopelessly at the crying child. "He won't talk to any of us."

Angela and Jack exchange anxious looks—finding a pair of parents in the middle of a crowded, unfamiliar place when only one of them speaks the language will not be the easiest feat they've pulled off—when there's a whispered footfall and the swish of striking red fabric as the woman from before approaches.

She takes one look at the child, then glances at Jack, before settling her gaze on the groups of children and launching in to conversation with them.

"What is she saying?" Jack whispers to Angela.

The blonde tilts her head. "They are local kids, I think. She knows them, and…" she pauses, listening carefully. "She knows his parents."

A moment more before the woman turns back to Angela and Jack. "I'm going to get his parents," she explains softly, and her words layered with an almost musical accent. "Will you please watch him while I do?"

Jack nods, and Angela is already stepping forward to kneel before the crying child.

 _"_ _Olá, pequeno,"_ she murmurs softly. He stops sniffling and gazes at her with wide, watery eyes. She holds out her arms invitingly. _"Seus pais estão em seu caminho. Que período gostaria de esperar com a gente?"_

There's a brief moment—there always is, whether Angela is addressing a wounded mother, a boy with a broken leg, a child who has suffered over and over again—where the boy looks like he is going to refuse. Some part of Angela dies every time she sees it, but still, her offer stands.

The moment passes, and the boy crawls into her arms, and Angela gently scoops him up.

"Hush now," she murmurs softly, holding the little boy closer. _"Você está seguro. Eu prometo que você está seguro."_

Her heart aches dully in her chest as she stands there, a child in her arms and a man at her side, knowing this is not for her. She will not have this life. She will only ever know war and heartache and pain and suffering and death. She's never once regretted her choice, but here, in the scorching sun of Salvador, it's suddenly too much. She will never trade the weight of her Valkyrie wings for the weight of a child, or a wedding band, or anything of that sort. And that assumes she has strength after the weight of her guilt.

"Angela?" Jack's voice is low in her ear, ever-worried.

"I'm fine," she murmurs back. "Just…just please let me have this."

Maybe he understands. Maybe he doesn't. Regardless, the result is a hand—heavy and warm—settling on her shoulder as they stand together on a busy street corner.

A pair of tattered soldiers with no family but each other.

The child snuggles closer into Angela's arm, and Jack's grip tightens on her shoulder.

-0-

Jack watches her evenly as she moves about the infirmary.

Her movements are fluid and graceful—not a single gesture wasted. Watching Angela work is a lot like watching a fencer, or a boxer. She knows her craft better than anyone—knows precisely how many steps it takes to get from the counter to the bed, knows the exact location of every item in the room, and can read the complicated numbers and symbols on the machines that flank her with barely a glance.

She is truly a sight to behold.

"He's gonna be okay, Doctor."

She pauses briefly, looking up to throw him a look of annoyed confusion.

"Of course he is," she responds. "I treated him myself."

An arrogant statement, but she's not exactly wrong. Jack just inclines his head.

"You just seemed worried, is all."

"Well, I'm not." Her words are harsh and untrue.

He tracks her across the room.

"Angela, he's fine. He took a shot to the chest, yes, but he's wearing plenty of armor, and you got there a _second_ after it happened—"

 _"_ _Stop."_ Angela does not often give orders, but when she does, they are followed. "Please, John."

The silence creeps back. He watches her reorganize prescription bottles for the fourth consecutive time.

"You love him." It isn't a question. Angela grits her teeth.

"I hold a deep affection for all of my comrades and patients," she replies, a certain snap to her words. "Gabriel is both. Of course I care for him."

Jack watches her silently. "I didn't say _care for_ , Doc," he murmurs.

She whips her head around, bright blue eyes narrowed. "If you are waiting for some sort of dramatic confession, or romantic soliloquy, you will be sorely disappointed," she tells him lowly.

"So I'm right."

She turns her back on him. "Please leave."

"Angela, there's nothing wrong—"

She spins back then, eyes alight with anger.

"There is _plenty_ wrong and we both know it," she tells him lowly. "I am not here for any reason other than to _help people—"_

 _"_ _Easy,_ Ange," Jack cuts her off, holding his hands up in surrender. "I'm not gonna turn you in or anything. I'm just saying—"

"Keep it to yourself, then," she retorts. Her voice is as cold and dark as the man they're discussing as she moves about the infirmary.

She feels his eyes on her as she moves, but does not give him her attention.

"Angela."

"I am not discussing this further, John. The conversation is closed."

A pause. She thinks—stupidly—she might have actually gotten through to him.

"What if I told you I had the same conversation with him?"

Angela's world goes sideways.

"You _what?"_ she demands lowly, eyes wide, mouth open in shock. "John— _what?"_

"Why are you shouting?" he asks, frowning at her sudden anger.

 _"_ _What did you talk to Gabriel about?"_

"Nothing, nothing!" he says quickly. He fumbles with his words and his hands, like even his body language is at a loss for what to say. "It's just, y'know, you two—"

Her eyes narrow. "Be very careful with how you finish that sentence, John Morrison."

"Your parents are dead," he blurts out.

Angela stares at him, arching one eyebrow very carefully.

"You have thirty seconds to make that worthwhile before you leave my infirmary," she tells him, voice low and sharp.

Jack holds up his hands in defense. "Your parents are dead, Gabe was raised by the streets. I just…you two—you could be each other's family."

Silence. Angela stares, and Jack squirms under her gaze.

"I'm not trying to push you into something you don't want, Ange, but…you're always so happy when you're around him."

"I'm fairly certain I'm yelling at him half the time I'm around him," Angela replies woodenly.

Jack sighs impatiently. "Of course you are. Because he knows exactly how to bother you and you let him and you two are honestly such _morons_ about this whole thing—"

"Did you just call me a _moron?"_

Jack stands up roughly, and Angela backs up in surprise before Jack seizes her hands.

"Let go of me."

"In a second."

"You called me a moron, do not presume to touch me."

Jack tugs her closer, eyes wide and honest and sincere.

"Promise me, when this is all over, you'll…you'll buy some land and get a house and maybe some animals and haul Gabe out there just be _happy_ with that idiot for a while. Please?"

She stares him down, unimpressed. "Firstly: no, that sounds like a genuine nightmare. Secondly: this will never _be over."_

He deflates slightly at her words, and she sighs, giving his hands a squeeze.

"John, I appreciate it, I really do. And yes…I—I do care for Gabriel a bit more than, _you know_. But now is not the time for talk like this." She smiles softly at him. "Someday, when we're too old to fight, and we're watching all the new agents of Overwatch, Gabriel and I will come visit your farm. And he will make a thousand rude comments about your house and I will compliment your garden and you will more than likely burn dinner and we will all be together."

Jack nods slowly. "I…I'd like that."

"Overwatch is my family, John," she murmurs. "You— _all_ of you—are my family. You will always be a part of me."

She smiles hesitantly. He gives her a rueful twist of his lips.

"I didn't really talk to Gabe about you," Jack tells her.

She sighs, giving him a tired smile. "I know. You would be dead if you had, I'm sure."

-0-

Mercy hasn't even had time to change out of her Valkyrie suit before she hears the news.

It comes from Tracer, who babbles anxiously at her as she walks briskly through the corridors of their base. The ex-pilot is stressed and worried and her words are spilling out of her faster than she can move her mouth.

"I've never seen Reyes so _angry,"_ she says, taking two quick steps for every one of Mercy's long, purposeful strides. "Honestly, I—I thought he was gonna _shoot_ McCree—"

"Gabriel would never harm a comrade," Mercy murmurs, almost to herself. The statement tastes bitterly of defensiveness and she quickens her pace, barging into the war room with a roughness she is not known for, Tracer scurrying after her.

Mercy hopes to find Gabriel. Instead, her gaze falls upon Jack.

Their gazes clash, and she realizes this is going to be a very bad conversation.

She glances at Tracer. "Do you know where McCree is?"

The younger woman bobs her head.

"Good. Go with him, lockdown the base. I do not want anyone coming or going. Not Gabriel, not the head of the United Nations. Understand?"

Tracer snaps a hasty salute and darts away.

Angela turns back to Jack, frowning as he paces around the war room.

"John." Mercy watches him, eyes sweeping his frame for some kind of gaping wound. "John, what did you—?"

"I'm Overwatch's Commander," he explains, words terse and tight. He won't look her in the eyes.

Angela's heart stutters, a foreboding feeling spreading throughout her like ink through water.

"I'm sorry?" she asks, eyebrows practically on the ceiling. "You _what?"_

He glares down at a table crowded with maps and laptops. "They offered it to me. The UN. They want me to lead."

Angela can only stare. "John…"

"I won't accept." The words are a low rumble in his chest.

"You _have_ to," she insists. "John, if you decline that will only make things—"

He turns on her then, and her survival instincts have her backing away, alarmed at the wild look in his eyes. For a moment, something in him seems to soften at her retreat, before the anger comes roaring back, hardening him.

"Gabe already heard!" he snaps. "He's probably plotting my _murder_ right now."

Angela's jaw goes taut, eyebrows slanting down in disapproval. "That's not true," she argues.

He takes another step, but she doesn't back away.

"I know him better than you could ever pretend to," he growls.

Her eyes flash, lips pulling back in a delicate snarl. "Then it is a good thing I'm not pretending."

They stare at each other, tensed and ready.

"I don't want this, Angela," he whispers suddenly. "I _don't."_

"John, please," she murmurs back. "Gabriel's vice has always been pride. This would destroy him. If you decline he will view it as an insult to himself and you know it!"

"And what about me?" he shouts, leaning closer, towering over her. She meets his gaze evenly. "Why is he the most important person, huh? Why does he get everything he wants?" His voice is sharp and demands conflict. She does not match it.

"Because you and I both have a habit of putting ourselves second," she tells him softly. She is so tired—tired of fighting, tired of watching her friends die, tired of failing over and over again and being hailed as a hero. "We're selfless, John—terribly so. That is our vice."

His irritation and anger and fear finally boils over as he grinds out a low, feral growl, spinning away from her to angrily pace the length of the war room.

"Selflessness is not a _vice,_ Angela!"

"Truly?" her voice is a whisper but her tone is stronger than steel. "Giving up everything for another person? Putting yourself second for your entire life? Sacrificing all that you are in the name of another? That is not a vice?"

"Gabe doesn't deserve it." His voice whips out so low and fast and fierce than for a moment, she doesn't recognize it as his.

She laughs. It's a humorless, bitter noise riddled with holes.

"That may be true," she tells him. "But if it is, neither of us believe it."

He turns to face her, and she can only stare back helplessly before falling back on the most basic caregiving technique there is.

She holds open her arms, and Jack only hesitates for a moment before striding across the room to envelope her in a tight hug.

They stand that way for a moment—just a hug between old friends.

He pulls her close, resting his chin on the slope of her shoulder.

"I was only supposed to do a short tour, you know," he tells her quietly, arms banded across her back. "Do my time, get back to the farm."

She chuckles weakly. "I hate to be the one to say it John, but I think your plan went slightly awry."

He sighs. "I never wanted to tell people what to do, Ange. Some people can do that, and I—I just _can't."_

"You are a natural leader, John," she murmurs back. "You and Gabriel both."

"Then why don't they let him lead?" he grumbles.

"You know why," she tells him softly. "They've never truly respected him."

Another sigh. Angela lightly trails her fingers across his shoulder.

"We will survive this, John. Of course Gabriel will be angry, but we have been through worse than this. Overwatch will endure. It always has."

"I hope so, Ange," Jack mutters back. "I really do."

-0-

It's a charming place, Angela reflects dully.

She steps lightly across the packed dirt, attention drawn to some cows that graze idly far in a pasture. A handful of dogs spotted her approach and have come galloping up to greet her, all fighting for her attention as they nuzzle at her hands and wrap themselves around her legs.

She makes her way slowly to the front porch, hands fisted nervously at her sides, blaster hidden away at her back, pristine white lab coat snapping at her heels.

Angela allows herself a brief glance at the rolling hills and sprawling plains. It truly is a beautiful land.

One of the dogs at her feet whines for attention, pressing closer to her leg, tail thwacking noisily against the wooden porch, and Angela obligingly reaches down to scratch his ears.

"I'm afraid you're not going to like me very much in a moment," she whispers to him, giving a few more fond pats before stepping up to the door and knocking twice.

The woman opens the door just a crack—two pale green eyes peer out at her, narrowed with suspicion and flanked with age lines—before recognition sparks and the door is thrown wide open.

"Um, hello," Angela begins, voice soft and stiff. "My name is—"

But the woman isn't listening. Her face has split into the widest smile the doctor has ever seen, and she turns to call over her shoulder: "Henry! Get out here! It's _Mercy!"_

Guilt gnaws at Angela's gut, and she tries to speak. "Excuse me, madam, I'm here regarding—"

But the woman just waves her quiet, still positively beaming as she ushers her inside.

"I can't believe it! After all these years!" The woman could not be smiling wider as she half-leads, half-herds the doctor through the family room and into a quaint little kitchen. Angela's wandering gaze catches on a portrait hung prominently on the wall featuring a young, handsome blonde boy with bright blue eyes and she feels violently ill.

"Mrs. Morrison, if I may—"

 _"_ _Henry!"_ the woman calls again. She shakes her head. "Lazy man, always in front of the holo-vid—"

"Ma'am," Angela tries again. "Please, I don't want to intrude, but—"

"Where's Jack?" the older woman asks, looking around as though she had missed him. "He brought you here, didn't he? He always visits when he's in the States."

Angela swallows. Hard. "Mrs. Morrison, I really need to speak with you—"

"Why, we were watching it on the holo-vid just a few days ago!" she remarks, and Angela grits her teeth as she begins pulling down glasses for the two of them. "They were doing another story on the soldier enhancement program. They always do such a lovely job, we're so proud—"

"Mrs. Morrison, _please!"_ Angela nearly shouts.

The woman pauses, looking at her with slight surprise. Angela takes a breath. She has to. She owes him this much, at least.

"Your son is dead," Angela whispers. The words taste like sulfur, and they leave her mouth like fire—burning her tongue and leaving ashes in her throat.

Mrs. Morrison goes still, hands freezing where she'd been reaching for the pitcher. She looks up and their eyes clash. The eyes of a mother and the eyes of a healer.

"No," she chokes out, and Angela's heart sputters at the pain in her voice. "No. Not my Jack. Not my boy."

Angela's eyes sting she's been caught in a cloud of tear gas. She stares down at the table, feeling empty.

"I am so, so sorry," Angela whispers to the ancient wood table. "There was nothing I could do."

Silence, save for the faint sounds of a holo-vid playing in the next room over. Angela glances over and sees a figure sitting in a worn armchair, facing away from her.

"Why didn't you heal him?" his mother asks, and Angela has felt the shadow of death pass over her many times, but in this moment she truly feels as though she will not survive.

"I was not there," Angela murmurs back. "I—I am sorry. Truly, I am. There was…an internal conflict, I was needed so many places—"

"The other boy. Gabe. He's dead too, isn't he?"

Angela is suddenly ripped away from the Morrison's family farm, and is back in her infirmary, blood splattered across her ruined Valkyrie suit as she desperately tries to revive her Commander, her _friend—_

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good."

The word is so short and cruel and it cuts with a venom Angela couldn't match on her darkest day.

"I…I just came, because I wanted you to know, your son was a hero." Angela's lips feel numb, her words stiff. "I wanted to come before the UN told you their version. John died defending Overwatch—his family. He was the best man I have ever known."

Mrs. Morrison stares at her, and Angela feels like it is Judgment Day and her scales are tipping dangerously in the wrong direction—

"I did not need you to tell me that." Her voice is cold and painfully familiar—the voice Angela herself uses after a horrible day in the field. "Please—just please leave."

Angela bows her head. "Of course," she murmurs, turning to leave. "I apologize, Mrs. Morrison."

She moves to leave, swallowing at the gentle sobs that follow her as she quietly leave the house, but before she does, she steals a glance at the man in the armchair, and her stomach bottoms out as she realizes he's already looking at her.

Eyes—the bluest blue she's ever seen once before, _Morrison_ blue—stare back at her, shiny with tears.

Angela finds herself short of breath as she all but throws herself out the front door, taking the steps two at a time and nearly running from the Morrison's property to her car, willing herself to escape the gaze of those eyes.

She has on hand on the door to her car when her phone buzzes in her pocket. Frowning, she dips a hand in to pull it out and answer.

"Hello?" Weary, so weary, even to her own ears.

"Angela?" Winston's voice—darkened with anxiety and nerves. "Angela, can you hear me?"

"Yes?" Angela narrows her eyes. "Winston, this is a private line, what are you—?"

"It's him, Doctor. Reyes. He isn't dead. He was spotted about fifty kilometers outside of—"

His urgent chatter dies as Angela's hand goes slack at her side, and she stares sightlessly at the ground, phone forgotten.

None of them will ever have rest. Not until they are dead.

And it seems that may be a very long time indeed.

* * *

 _I'm baaaaaaack!_

Sorry for the delay. Fandoms were giving me a headache. I'm usually pretty okay with whatever people decide to throw at me (I'm gonna keep writing regardless of how many "this sucks" messages I get okay sorry kids) and can pretty much roll with the punches but I just got really tired of it these past few days. Like if you saw the fuckin shitstorm on my main blog last night you know what I'm talking about. Also, vacation.

Anyway, here I am again, back with more ambiguous relationships and Overwatch hijinks. I really took this as a parallel to Purgatory, because even though I ship/not-ship the hell out of Mercy and Reaper, she's got strong ties with 76 too. They are 100% Overwatch's mom and dad okay I'll fight you over this.

Also I spent like sixty years on this fuckin thing and now I literally never want to look at it again so there's that. My next piece may be Amélie/Widowmaker centric because I love my OG/OW trio but like I gotta take a break from them holy shit. Or maybe I'll fuckin update a knife in the back wouldn't that be a neat idea.

On another note, the statue bit was absolutely my favorite and has been in my head ever since I watched that short and I'm so glad I finally found a place to put it.

ALSO IMPORTANT PSA I'M FUCKING GARBAGE AT LANGUAGES AND USE SHITTY ONLINE TRANSLATORS SO PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE CORRECT ME IF I FUCKED UP ANYTHING OKAY YOU WILL NOT OFFEND OR UPSET ME I WILL SHOWER YOU WITH LOVE AND AFFECTION I'M USELESS AND ONLY KNOW ENGLISH AND STILL MANAGE TO FUCK THAT UP 80% OF THE TIME

I'm always down for a chat, so don't hesitate to give me a shout if you need something!


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